Fic: 'The Clean Up Man' Draco/James NC17
Title: The Clean Up Man
Author: softly_sweetly
Characters/Pairings: Draco/James (Draco/Astoria)
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Coitus a unda (sex in or under water) & Masturbation (mutual)
Other Warnings: Cross Gen, Infidelity
Word Count: ~2200
Summary/Description: What happens in the Quidditch locker rooms stays in the Quidditch locker rooms. Usually.
Author's Notes: Thank you cassie_black12 for betaing this, even when it completely changed form. I had grand plans for plot and content, but then couldn't get my mind past wet!Draco. Hope you all enjoy regardless! Written for January's daily_deviant prompts. Also counts to prompt #1 Admire from my 100quills Next Generation Table
It wasn't quite the Quidditch career he'd imagined. Watching from the stands, week in week out, living vicariously through the seven players zipping around on top of the range brooms. But a nasty accident with a Bludger in sixth year had officially killed James' chances of playing Quidditch professionally. And forced him to learn to wank with the other hand.
His love of the sport was untarnished, so James came at the problem from a different angle. He was nothing if not resourceful. With his grades, and his surname, it wasn't hard to break into the administrative side of the game, and at twenty-six he was the PR man for the Wakefield Wasps, somewhat-affectionately known as 'the clean up man' by his colleagues. He was responsible for securing the good promotional deals, for managing the press and the allocation of VIP tickets, and generally maintaining the team's good image.
Of course, that also meant he was the one to clean up the messes. Drug addictions, drink problems, extra marital affairs. No matter the sin - and he'd seen some in his four years with the team - James was expected to put it right. He silenced mistresses and appeased wives weekly. He had a room permanently booked in a discreet rehab clinic. He had Healers and counsellors and the odd goblin on his payroll. And James was good. He'd stared the apocalypse in the face, and kept the entire damn thing out of the Prophet. And his mother could claim that was hyperbole and he was being dramatic, but if she knew half the things the players got up to, she'd be begging for the four horsemen as a return to decency.
Shrugging out of his suit jacket, James tossed it in the general direction of the coat hooks. He liked the cut of the Muggle designer, so much more flattering than his formal robes, and it set him apart from the rest of the PR brigade. Of course, his natural talent and good looks set him apart, but James liked to stand out as much as was possible. He was a natural exhibitionist, and had to be to get any attention from anyone once they started cooing about how his siblings looked like his dead grandparents. However, sometimes discretion was needed.
Kicking his shoes off, James focused on undoing all the buttons and catches on his clothes, peeling down to his bare skin before he looked up. Draco had the Jacuzzi charm going full blast, the water frothing and spilling over the edges of the huge bath. James took his time getting into the tub, sinking down in the water to his chin and letting out a happy sigh. The pain of watching Quidditch and not being able to play, compounded with the stress of shepherding the press around like sheep, and the ever-present axe of scandal hanging over his neck made match days tiring and difficult. Even without a partner, James would always hang back so he could sink into one of the physiotherapy tubs and let his worries wash away.
The champagne flute that hovered in front of him was clichéd, but appreciated, and James drained it quickly, Summoning the bottle to top himself up. "Good game."
"My joints are killing me."
"Well, you are old."
Draco huffed, but James let the insult hang in the air. Draco was old, one of the oldest players in the league. He had three, maybe four seasons left in him before he'd be no use, and the team would retire him quietly. If he played his cards right, he could continue earning big money through public appearances and coaching, but Draco had never been one to play his cards right. In the time James had been with the Wasps, roughly a third of his problems had been of Draco's making. To begin with, James had tried to explain to Draco why it was wrong to take banned substances, grope anyone who passed, hit photographers, slate the Firebolt broom that was so graciously provided to the team free of charge, and a hundred other things Draco did. But James' words had been wasted, floating away on the air, with Draco not even having the courtesy to let them go in one ear and out the other.
Everyone had an opinion on Draco, from those who clung onto the past to avoid the future and claimed he should never have been allowed to play professionally, those who claimed his every move was genius, and those who went to school with him and wouldn't let their grudges go. James had tried to form an opinion on his own, and had come to the conclusion that Draco had never really grown up. Underneath the stubble and the crow's feet, he was basically a sixteen year old child, hell-bent on getting his own way and unable to appreciate that his actions impacted on other people.
"Knut for your thoughts?"
Setting the glass on the edge of the bath, James scooted across the bath and turned around, shuffling backwards and trusting Draco would open his legs. He did, and James relaxed back against his chest, letting his head loll back and his eyes slip closed. "I was just wondering what your excuse is today?"
"You. I told her you're making me stay late so you can tell me off for giving an interview without your explicit consent. She reckons you're a mouthy little upstart who should mind his manners around me."
James snorted. Astoria hated him for all the wrong reasons. Because he was a Potter, because he kept Draco late to shout at him so often. She'd told him at the Christmas party that he had no sway over Draco's life, and he should back off. James had nearly split his sides trying not to laugh. He should probably feel guilty about fucking her husband so vigorously and so often, but he didn't. In fact, James rationalised that he was doing the right thing. Draco was currently so infatuated with him that he was leaving the random waiters and hookers alone. James' job had been much easier over the past six months, and he saw no reason to make his own life more difficult just to respect the sanctity of a marriage that one of the partners clearly couldn't give a toss about.
"And what excuse will you use to see me when you retire? Assuming I haven't lost interest by then." James let his voice trail off, that little bit of emotional blackmail hanging in the air between them. Paradoxically, by acting as though shagging Draco was merely a way to pass the time, as opposed to something he looked forward to, James kept Draco coming back for more.
"You couldn't leave me if you tried." There was a hint of confusion, a slight chink in the overconfident armour that Draco cloaked himself in.
James briefly, very briefly, imagined how it would be if Draco left Astoria for him and they did this relationship properly. Then he remembered that leopards don't change their spots, and shook the image away. Besides, it was too late now. "Want to test that theory?"
A hand snuck around his waist, and James opened his legs, relaxing fully as Draco's fingers curled around his cock and started stroking slowly. He'd been half-hard since he came into the changing rooms, to bollock Knaves for stashing vodka in his water bottle again, and caught Draco in the showers.
"I'll be retiring in a season or two, you know."
"Thank Merlin. You'll have to clean up your own mistakes."
"Unless you come with me?"
James had been too busy revelling in the warm slap of water against his skin to properly listen to that question, and it was only when Draco's hand paused and the silence got uncomfortable that James' rational brain prodded him into answering. "I think Astoria might object to me moving in as your catamite."
Draco's hand started up again, and the low chuckle hummed through his body, making the hairs on the back of James' neck stand up as he felt the vibrations. Sharp teeth nipped at his ear lobe, unfairly picking on a spot that Draco knew made James' eyes cross with pleasure. "Just a little bit. But I'll need a publicist, someone to keep the proletariat at bay while I do the interviews and guest appearances. Someone to negotiate me a deal writing a Quidditch column, or maybe commenting on the Wireless."
"Do you have any idea what the club pays me?" James shuffled forwards slightly, just far enough that he could get his hand behind him. After all, it would be rude not to reciprocate.
"I'll double it."
"You'll be bankrupt in a year." James flexed his fingers, getting himself comfortable before he wrapped his hand around Draco's shaft. He hated to clock-watch, but needed to know roughly how long they had. Checking the time, James decided they didn't have enough time for sex. Their tub sessions could go on for hours if left unchecked and James didn't fancy being caught by the cleaning staff. So he tightened his grip and began stroking Draco's shaft firmly. His force as he took control of the situation caught Draco off guard, and James smirked as Draco gasped and bucked against him. The only thing better than the feel of Draco's silky skin under his palm was the knowledge that Draco was completely his in this moment. A lesser man would have used the power to his own ends, but James was better than that.
"Is this a yes?"
"No. You have four seasons left in you, minimum. And in that time, I might have accepted an offer somewhere else. I've always liked the look of America. California maybe. All that heat means fewer clothes."
Draco's teeth sank into his neck, sucking up a mark that James would leave for all of five minutes until Draco had gone. Releasing his flesh, Draco muttered, "But no fun without someone to be naked with."
James just shrugged, focusing instead on matching his rhythm to Draco's, and then increasing it slowly. Every time his hand sped up, Draco's matched pace, their actions getting faster and firmer. Water splashed over the side of the bath, the Jacuzzi charm and their frantic moments creating a churning, frothy mess that bounced James' sac and lapped at his chest. It was a strangely pleasant sensation, the water like a hundred gentle fingers, the perfect counterpart to Draco's firm hand. He could feel tension knotting in his belly, his toes cramping and curling against the tiled bottom of the tub, trying to find purchase as he rocked his hips up into Draco's hand.
Draco came first, of course, and James squeezed his eyes closed, imagining he could feel Draco's come splashing over his back, imagining filthy words coming from Draco's mouth instead of the deep grunting and gasping. The images, half-fantasy and half-remembered experiences, did the trick, and as Draco brought his other hand around to rub the tip of James' shaft, James came with a yell. The noise echoed around the damp room, bouncing off the tiles and fading away into nothing as James fought to catch his breath again.
Moving away from Draco abruptly, James stood up and climbed out of the bath, Summoning a towel and patting himself down.
"Going so soon?"
"I have a meeting with the Prophet editor to keep your recent rant about the fans being common and gullible out of the paper."
"Will you be at Jimmy's later?"
The regular post-match bar was a hotspot of gold-diggers and sell-outs, and the bane of James' existence. Every waiter was out to make a quick Knut, every waitress wanting her own kiss-and-tell story. Shaking his head, he stepped into his trousers and ignored the way Draco was leering at him. "Maybe. This meeting is important."
Draco nodded and went back to his wine, so James picked up the rest of his clothes and made his escape. He needed to look presentable, needed to make sure that he was the consummate businessman. Because tonight was his make-or-break meeting. It wasn't a rant of Draco's that he was keeping out of the Prophet, but an incriminating picture of Draco balls deep in what was clearly a male arse. For all the scandal that followed Draco around, it was always centred on women. Forget Australia - when it became known that he'd managed to stop one of his players being outed in the press, the job offers would come pouring in. James hadn't been joking about America; he was ready for a new challenge. James manipulated people for a living, and he could do a lot worse to Draco than use him, without his knowledge, to secure a promotion.
And as the pictures would never see the light of day, he'd never have to explain why the other man had a distinctive birthmark on his buttock, just like James' own.
Author: softly_sweetly
Characters/Pairings: Draco/James (Draco/Astoria)
Rating: NC17
Kinks/Themes Chosen: Coitus a unda (sex in or under water) & Masturbation (mutual)
Other Warnings: Cross Gen, Infidelity
Word Count: ~2200
Summary/Description: What happens in the Quidditch locker rooms stays in the Quidditch locker rooms. Usually.
Author's Notes: Thank you cassie_black12 for betaing this, even when it completely changed form. I had grand plans for plot and content, but then couldn't get my mind past wet!Draco. Hope you all enjoy regardless! Written for January's daily_deviant prompts. Also counts to prompt #1 Admire from my 100quills Next Generation Table
It wasn't quite the Quidditch career he'd imagined. Watching from the stands, week in week out, living vicariously through the seven players zipping around on top of the range brooms. But a nasty accident with a Bludger in sixth year had officially killed James' chances of playing Quidditch professionally. And forced him to learn to wank with the other hand.
His love of the sport was untarnished, so James came at the problem from a different angle. He was nothing if not resourceful. With his grades, and his surname, it wasn't hard to break into the administrative side of the game, and at twenty-six he was the PR man for the Wakefield Wasps, somewhat-affectionately known as 'the clean up man' by his colleagues. He was responsible for securing the good promotional deals, for managing the press and the allocation of VIP tickets, and generally maintaining the team's good image.
Of course, that also meant he was the one to clean up the messes. Drug addictions, drink problems, extra marital affairs. No matter the sin - and he'd seen some in his four years with the team - James was expected to put it right. He silenced mistresses and appeased wives weekly. He had a room permanently booked in a discreet rehab clinic. He had Healers and counsellors and the odd goblin on his payroll. And James was good. He'd stared the apocalypse in the face, and kept the entire damn thing out of the Prophet. And his mother could claim that was hyperbole and he was being dramatic, but if she knew half the things the players got up to, she'd be begging for the four horsemen as a return to decency.
Shrugging out of his suit jacket, James tossed it in the general direction of the coat hooks. He liked the cut of the Muggle designer, so much more flattering than his formal robes, and it set him apart from the rest of the PR brigade. Of course, his natural talent and good looks set him apart, but James liked to stand out as much as was possible. He was a natural exhibitionist, and had to be to get any attention from anyone once they started cooing about how his siblings looked like his dead grandparents. However, sometimes discretion was needed.
Kicking his shoes off, James focused on undoing all the buttons and catches on his clothes, peeling down to his bare skin before he looked up. Draco had the Jacuzzi charm going full blast, the water frothing and spilling over the edges of the huge bath. James took his time getting into the tub, sinking down in the water to his chin and letting out a happy sigh. The pain of watching Quidditch and not being able to play, compounded with the stress of shepherding the press around like sheep, and the ever-present axe of scandal hanging over his neck made match days tiring and difficult. Even without a partner, James would always hang back so he could sink into one of the physiotherapy tubs and let his worries wash away.
The champagne flute that hovered in front of him was clichéd, but appreciated, and James drained it quickly, Summoning the bottle to top himself up. "Good game."
"My joints are killing me."
"Well, you are old."
Draco huffed, but James let the insult hang in the air. Draco was old, one of the oldest players in the league. He had three, maybe four seasons left in him before he'd be no use, and the team would retire him quietly. If he played his cards right, he could continue earning big money through public appearances and coaching, but Draco had never been one to play his cards right. In the time James had been with the Wasps, roughly a third of his problems had been of Draco's making. To begin with, James had tried to explain to Draco why it was wrong to take banned substances, grope anyone who passed, hit photographers, slate the Firebolt broom that was so graciously provided to the team free of charge, and a hundred other things Draco did. But James' words had been wasted, floating away on the air, with Draco not even having the courtesy to let them go in one ear and out the other.
Everyone had an opinion on Draco, from those who clung onto the past to avoid the future and claimed he should never have been allowed to play professionally, those who claimed his every move was genius, and those who went to school with him and wouldn't let their grudges go. James had tried to form an opinion on his own, and had come to the conclusion that Draco had never really grown up. Underneath the stubble and the crow's feet, he was basically a sixteen year old child, hell-bent on getting his own way and unable to appreciate that his actions impacted on other people.
"Knut for your thoughts?"
Setting the glass on the edge of the bath, James scooted across the bath and turned around, shuffling backwards and trusting Draco would open his legs. He did, and James relaxed back against his chest, letting his head loll back and his eyes slip closed. "I was just wondering what your excuse is today?"
"You. I told her you're making me stay late so you can tell me off for giving an interview without your explicit consent. She reckons you're a mouthy little upstart who should mind his manners around me."
James snorted. Astoria hated him for all the wrong reasons. Because he was a Potter, because he kept Draco late to shout at him so often. She'd told him at the Christmas party that he had no sway over Draco's life, and he should back off. James had nearly split his sides trying not to laugh. He should probably feel guilty about fucking her husband so vigorously and so often, but he didn't. In fact, James rationalised that he was doing the right thing. Draco was currently so infatuated with him that he was leaving the random waiters and hookers alone. James' job had been much easier over the past six months, and he saw no reason to make his own life more difficult just to respect the sanctity of a marriage that one of the partners clearly couldn't give a toss about.
"And what excuse will you use to see me when you retire? Assuming I haven't lost interest by then." James let his voice trail off, that little bit of emotional blackmail hanging in the air between them. Paradoxically, by acting as though shagging Draco was merely a way to pass the time, as opposed to something he looked forward to, James kept Draco coming back for more.
"You couldn't leave me if you tried." There was a hint of confusion, a slight chink in the overconfident armour that Draco cloaked himself in.
James briefly, very briefly, imagined how it would be if Draco left Astoria for him and they did this relationship properly. Then he remembered that leopards don't change their spots, and shook the image away. Besides, it was too late now. "Want to test that theory?"
A hand snuck around his waist, and James opened his legs, relaxing fully as Draco's fingers curled around his cock and started stroking slowly. He'd been half-hard since he came into the changing rooms, to bollock Knaves for stashing vodka in his water bottle again, and caught Draco in the showers.
"I'll be retiring in a season or two, you know."
"Thank Merlin. You'll have to clean up your own mistakes."
"Unless you come with me?"
James had been too busy revelling in the warm slap of water against his skin to properly listen to that question, and it was only when Draco's hand paused and the silence got uncomfortable that James' rational brain prodded him into answering. "I think Astoria might object to me moving in as your catamite."
Draco's hand started up again, and the low chuckle hummed through his body, making the hairs on the back of James' neck stand up as he felt the vibrations. Sharp teeth nipped at his ear lobe, unfairly picking on a spot that Draco knew made James' eyes cross with pleasure. "Just a little bit. But I'll need a publicist, someone to keep the proletariat at bay while I do the interviews and guest appearances. Someone to negotiate me a deal writing a Quidditch column, or maybe commenting on the Wireless."
"Do you have any idea what the club pays me?" James shuffled forwards slightly, just far enough that he could get his hand behind him. After all, it would be rude not to reciprocate.
"I'll double it."
"You'll be bankrupt in a year." James flexed his fingers, getting himself comfortable before he wrapped his hand around Draco's shaft. He hated to clock-watch, but needed to know roughly how long they had. Checking the time, James decided they didn't have enough time for sex. Their tub sessions could go on for hours if left unchecked and James didn't fancy being caught by the cleaning staff. So he tightened his grip and began stroking Draco's shaft firmly. His force as he took control of the situation caught Draco off guard, and James smirked as Draco gasped and bucked against him. The only thing better than the feel of Draco's silky skin under his palm was the knowledge that Draco was completely his in this moment. A lesser man would have used the power to his own ends, but James was better than that.
"Is this a yes?"
"No. You have four seasons left in you, minimum. And in that time, I might have accepted an offer somewhere else. I've always liked the look of America. California maybe. All that heat means fewer clothes."
Draco's teeth sank into his neck, sucking up a mark that James would leave for all of five minutes until Draco had gone. Releasing his flesh, Draco muttered, "But no fun without someone to be naked with."
James just shrugged, focusing instead on matching his rhythm to Draco's, and then increasing it slowly. Every time his hand sped up, Draco's matched pace, their actions getting faster and firmer. Water splashed over the side of the bath, the Jacuzzi charm and their frantic moments creating a churning, frothy mess that bounced James' sac and lapped at his chest. It was a strangely pleasant sensation, the water like a hundred gentle fingers, the perfect counterpart to Draco's firm hand. He could feel tension knotting in his belly, his toes cramping and curling against the tiled bottom of the tub, trying to find purchase as he rocked his hips up into Draco's hand.
Draco came first, of course, and James squeezed his eyes closed, imagining he could feel Draco's come splashing over his back, imagining filthy words coming from Draco's mouth instead of the deep grunting and gasping. The images, half-fantasy and half-remembered experiences, did the trick, and as Draco brought his other hand around to rub the tip of James' shaft, James came with a yell. The noise echoed around the damp room, bouncing off the tiles and fading away into nothing as James fought to catch his breath again.
Moving away from Draco abruptly, James stood up and climbed out of the bath, Summoning a towel and patting himself down.
"Going so soon?"
"I have a meeting with the Prophet editor to keep your recent rant about the fans being common and gullible out of the paper."
"Will you be at Jimmy's later?"
The regular post-match bar was a hotspot of gold-diggers and sell-outs, and the bane of James' existence. Every waiter was out to make a quick Knut, every waitress wanting her own kiss-and-tell story. Shaking his head, he stepped into his trousers and ignored the way Draco was leering at him. "Maybe. This meeting is important."
Draco nodded and went back to his wine, so James picked up the rest of his clothes and made his escape. He needed to look presentable, needed to make sure that he was the consummate businessman. Because tonight was his make-or-break meeting. It wasn't a rant of Draco's that he was keeping out of the Prophet, but an incriminating picture of Draco balls deep in what was clearly a male arse. For all the scandal that followed Draco around, it was always centred on women. Forget Australia - when it became known that he'd managed to stop one of his players being outed in the press, the job offers would come pouring in. James hadn't been joking about America; he was ready for a new challenge. James manipulated people for a living, and he could do a lot worse to Draco than use him, without his knowledge, to secure a promotion.
And as the pictures would never see the light of day, he'd never have to explain why the other man had a distinctive birthmark on his buttock, just like James' own.